It was bedtime and little Mitch wanted to visit his big sister in her room. Mitch loved Laura-Ashley and she loved him. A tenderer sibling relationship there never was.
My daughter, an honors student, always had a lot of homework to do and the stress of meeting her assignments was ever-present – but this young woman valued love and family above all else. No matter what was on her plate she was always quick to set everything aside in order to give Mitch her mind and heart. In my mind I can still hear the sound of her sweet voice whenever she spoke with him. Her tone with him was as unique and tender as their relationship.
Mitch sat on the edge of her bed and they talked for a while. Soon Mitch yawned and she knew it was time for her little brother to sleep. So, Laura-Ashley hoisted this tired boy on her back and carried him up the stairs, knowing his muscles were too weak to climb them anymore. I was so humbled to see this act of love and service.
I took this photo about two weeks before Mitch went to the hospital. He was dying and we didn't know it.
When I see this photo I can’t help but remember the night I knelt by this very bed and gently woke my daughter to tell her Mitch was gone. We both cried. I hurt for my daughter. I hurt for my son. I hurt.
I wish the death of a child didn't hurt so much. But it does.
Every room in my home reminds me of my son. Without warning a memory will flash through my mind as though I were watching a grainy home film of a moment long gone. For the most part these memories, these echoes of the past, are beautiful and I love them. I can still see Mitch sitting on the end of the couch every morning quietly waiting to give me a hug before I went to work. I miss that. I can see my three boys laughing as they had Nerf wars in the basement. I can see my daughter helping Mitch with homework at the kitchen table - and my wife at her desk helping him with an art project. I can see Mitch everywhere but nowhere.
As a grieving parent, I've discovered euphemisms like “he’s there with you” don’t help. Mitch isn't waiting on the couch for me. It is clear to see the couch is empty. My son is not in his room. His bedroom is profoundly empty. His wheelchair, covered in cloth, remains unmoved. Everything echoes. He is simply not there … not the way he used to be. And for a grieving parent that’s the point: the ones we love are gone from our lives.
As I have contemplated the echoes of emptiness I also recognized the echoes of memory and experience. One echo is hollow and the other is full … and it seems they are not mutually exclusive. At least for me, when it comes to grieving I think the key is to acknowledge both; to hear the emptiness but hear also the echoes of memory and love.
Never have my knees been more bruised – either from falling in sorrow or pleading to God. Though our empty rooms echo hollow, my heart is full of echoes that come from love and life experience.
Yet there are other echoes that come from neither emptiness nor memory. These echoes come from a place before time and mortality. B.H. Roberts once wrote “Faith is putting trust in what the spirit learned eons ago.” That is why certain things ring familiar and true. I have come to understand learning (especially spiritual learning) is but a remembering. Perhaps better said, it is an awakening.
Indeed everything echoes. My home echoes empty without my sweet son. My heart is filled with echoes - memories rich with love and feeling. And if I calm my soul, I can hear echoes from that place beyond the hills. Despite my broken heart, bruised knees and legs on the brink of collapse, I can hear echoes that bring spiritual understanding. I hear an echo that reminds me if I am not my body – neither was my son.
So in this place of echoes, where everything is empty yet full – I know there are echoes yet unheard that are meant to teach my soul.
I am listening.
Toward the end of summer 2012, before I left on an extended business trip overseas, my wife and I took our kids camping. I had a certain uneasiness about me. I couldn't put my finger on it. Though used to travelling, this time was different. I was going to be on the other side of the earth for a few weeks and my mind and heart worried I might not see my family again. I knew this time was precious. How precious, at the time, I knew not. In the end, I believe my feelings were magnified because I knew time was short for my son. This was our last camping trip as a family.
We settled by a reservoir near Park City and the weather was beautiful. Whenever we went camping Mitch always wanted to sleep next to me – so as we pulled into the campground Mitch was the first to call dibs to one of my sides. I love him.
The tent was set, the kids were playing and I had just started a campfire when I looked to a nearby road only to find my daughter pushing Mitch on his wheelchair as fast as she could. Mitch laughed and smiled as Laura-Ashley took him for a ride. Mitch loved the wind in his face – but he loved his sister even more. His right knee, bearing a nearly-healed wound from falling a few weeks prior, was a reminder that walking was difficult for him and running impossible. What’s more, it was a subtle reminder that being outside the safety of a wheelchair was becoming increasingly risky for him. There was safety in a wheelchair because he wouldn't trip or fall – but it was also limiting. Laura-Ashley, knowing he couldn't run like others, gave Mitch the next best thing. In fact, it was far better.
I was struck by the beauty of this moment and also by the inward beauty of my daughter. I have always thought she was beautiful on the outside – but, to me, she is angelically beautiful on the inside. I admire her on so many levels. I once wrote of her: “My remarkable daughter: Kind to people who hurt her. Loving to others that hurt. Deeply artistic. Intelligent beyond her years. A fierce protector. A loyal helper. Astute observer. Simply beautiful. Beautifully complex.” She is all of that and so much more.
My sweet daughter had a very special relationship with Mitch. She was always so tender and kind to him – ever looking for ways to keep him safe and feeling loved. In my mind I can still hear her sweet tone every time she spoke with him. It was so unique. So loving. Her love to him was a warm blanket.
I’ll never forget her reaction the night Mitch passed away. It was about 4AM when I went to Laura-Ashley’s room to tell my daughter her little brother was gone. I gently placed my hand on her shoulder and woke her then whispered Mitch had passed away and tears immediately filled her eyes. Her little brother, whom she had given her heart and served with all her might, was gone. My heart, already broken from losing my son, broke even more to see this loving sister, my sweet daughter whom I also loved with all my heart, in great pain. I would have given my life to keep my son alive and save my daughter from hurt and sorrow. I wish death didn't have to hurt so much. But it does. And that kind of hurt is exquisite.
I will always remember this moment of love and service – how my daughter tried to give my son the next best thing but in reality gave him something far better.
Like my son who wished to be like “regular kids” and run free of his handicap, I am sometimes tempted to want for a “regular life” [if there ever was one] free from hardship and sorrows. But like my daughter taught me, the things we gain from adapting to hardships are be far better than what we get when we run free of the hard things that teach us what matters most ... and that is something far better.
This summer Mitchell’s Aunt Sonya married a wonderfully loving man. On the evening prior to her wedding we attended a family gathering at my in-laws to celebrate the union of two noble souls who each had their share of hardship and sorrows and were blessed to find one another. It was a moment of rest and reunion, a celebration of love and family and a testament that clouds do break even though the storms of life can seem to last forever.
As we sat in the warm shadow of the hills there wasn't a breeze within 100 miles, I’m sure of it, and the sounds of evening began to softly fill the air. It was a beautiful evening … the kind of evening Mitch, who loved nature, would have come to me and said “Dad, you have to come outside and see this.”
Each of Sonya’s brothers and sisters took turns offering well wishes and honored a woman who spent her life in the service of others. Many made reference to our fallen son and recognized her tender relationship with him. There was a spirit of love and gratitude that night that seemed to reach the heavens and beyond. On this evening an ordinary backyard became hallowed ground.
When it was Natalie’s turn to honor her sister she struggled to speak through emotions that weighed heavy on her soul. Sonya was a faithful friend to Natalie and in many ways a second mother. She was also one of Mitchell’s most ardent champions, always looking out for his medical needs and helping us navigate a bewilderingly vague landscape of “what’s next”.
Natalie told her sister how much she loved her and how grateful she was for being there in times of trouble. Two conversations were taking place; one was spoken and the other felt. On the one hand there were words of love and appreciation and on the other feelings of tremendous sorrow. At the end of her tear-filled tribute, I remember seeing my wife hug her sister and they both wept at the loss of a little boy they loved deeply. The look of love and anguish on my wife’s face broke me.
I found myself taking more photos than normal this day so as to hide my face that, despite my best efforts, was racked with emotion. All I wanted to do was crawl inside a bush or a forest or a deep cave and water the earth with my tears. Yet despite the pain of this moment, seeing my tender wife suffer a parent’s greatest loss, I also saw beauty.
Aristotle had it right when he said we become what we repeatedly do.
In this moment I saw two women who spent their lives offering love and grace to others and in turn they received the same from many. Sure there have been some dark souls who didn't reciprocate their tender love and goodness. But they never let the darkness of others get to them nor the hardships of life make them bitter. They continued to love and lift others freely and make the best of whatever difficulties befell them. These two women became what they repeatedly practiced.
We often think of shields as being hard and impenetrable. But there are other shields that cannot be seen and sometimes they present themselves as an earthly paradox. Some shields are strongest when they are soft; and in matters of the soul it is a paradox with a heavenly promise. In their case, these two women became what they repeatedly practiced: soft and graceful. And when hardships came and threatened to destroy them, the grace and goodness in their hearts became a shield unto them. The softness in their hearts protected them from becoming calloused, hardened or resentful. Instead of letting life’s hardships make them bitter, the grace in their hearts made them better.
As I think upon this tender moment I cannot help but see great sorrow by the loss of my son. But in the depths of this sorrow I also see grace. And where there is grace there is beauty.
“While this has been a journey of tremendous hardship and sorrow, it has also been a journey of profound tender mercies from a loving Father in Heaven who has and continues to help us through this difficult time. There is more love and happiness than there is pain. We are grateful.”
The other day Mitch was feeling okay so we sat as a family at out our kitchen table to have dinner for the first time in a month. For years our family dinners have been a family routine, and perhaps a somewhat underappreciated ritual at times. But this day was different; we had our boy back with us. It was such a sweet time. Little Mitch sat by his dad, as he does every night. The kids were joking and talking about their day at school and Natalie had fun interacting with everyone. I sat at the table in silence … in awe of these sweet people whom I had grown to love so very much. I held back my tears of gratitude, recognizing that I was so fortunate to have a family.
Above our table rests a small sign (left in photo) that says “there’s more to breaking bread than sharing a meal.” This night, that truism settled on me with great force. It isn’t the nature and quality of the food or table settings that makes dinner time special … it is the reunion and conversation that makes it such an valuable experience.
Before today, my kitchen table was just a table. At this moment I realize I will never look upon our table with the same eyes. All too soon our son will no longer be with us and an empty chair will always be there as a reminder of this wonderful young man who has touched our family so deeply. My kitchen table …. no longer an inanimate object – but a monument … a symbol of the family I love so much.
Down the darkened hall to Mitchell’s bedroom lies our little boy in his bed with the soft glow of his TV filling the room with its dull light. Mitch wants the TV on to take his mind off things and help him sleep. Sitting beside him is his mother faithfully administering his medicines every 2 hours. Exhausted beyond words ... she weeps for him. She is the unsung hero with battle wounds the human eye cannot see. I have come to love and respect my wife in ways I never imagined. I have seen a side to her I never knew existed and even in my deep sorrow, I fall in love all over again.
My sister came over today and brought us two seat cushions and a box of Kleenex and set them on the floor in the hall just outside his bedroom. She, having read one of our posts, thought to make our moments of grief a little easier. We used them this evening.
There exists an unusual peace in our hearts right now. The last 72 hours have been nothing short of providential and answers to deep prayers. We have all those that have prayed for us to thank. Your collective faith and the works of prayer have unlocked blessings that would have not come otherwise. Thank you. We will share some of these experiences when the time is right. But, for the moment, with this peace we feel is a recognition that the time is near. Very near.
As I place my hand on my son’s chest, I can feel his heart beating so very fast. I pray that he has peace of mind and body ... and we the gift of another day. The trouble is we will always want one more day and I have come to realize that I don't think we'll ever be truly ready to say goodbye. Death will come like an unfair thief and take our little boy away.
There is a part of me that is dying each day with my son. And like death is a separation of the body and the spirit … there is a separation of the old me ... and it is being replaced with a new one. Each day I see the world with new eyes. Each day emerges a new heart that will never feel the same as before and a mind that will never think the same.
While this has been a journey of tremendous hardship and sorrow, it has also been a journey of profound tender mercies from a loving Father in Heaven who has and continues to help us through this difficult time. There is more love and happiness than there is pain. We are grateful.